“What for?” Johnny lifted his brows and stared at the bartender with innocent eyes.
“Yea-a-ah! Why smash that glass?”
“Well, yuh can’t expect anybody to ever drink out of it, could yuh? After you yawnin’ upon it thataway, Doc. I know—well I don’t want to draw it.”
“——, that don’t hurt the glass!”
“Well, of all things!” shrilled Oyster. “As long as the glass don’t get hurt, everythin’ is all right. I’ll betcha he’s yawned upon every glass he’s got. If we was ever goin’ to drink in this place again, I’d argue in favor of smashin’ every glass he’s got on that back bar.”
And the bartender knew that the AK outfit were entirely capable of doing just such a thing. But they were not quite drunk enough to accept Oyster’s suggestion. At any rate their minds were diverted by the entrance of “Scotty” Olson, the big lumbering sheriff of Blue Wells, whose sense of humor was not quite as big nor as lively as a fever germ.
Scotty wore a buffalo-horn mustache, which matched the huge eyebrows that shaded his little eyes. He was a powerful person, huge of hand, heavy-voiced, rather favoring a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun, which he handled with one hand.
“The law is among us,” said Johnny seriously. “Have a little drink, Mister Law?”
“No.” Scotty was without finesse.
“Have a cigar?” asked Eskimo.